ScreaminMamas
Fall Edition 2020
TM
The Voice of Everyday Moms
FEATURED POETS Ruth Lee Patricia Lynne Marcella Kumer Paula Timpson Kiersta Rechtenwald Janet Sobczyk
FEATURED Article Holly Hawkins FEATURED GUEST Cool Kind Kids SHORT STORIES Alixx Black Karen Curran Gloria Jean Hansen Millie Baker Ragosta Ashley Simpson Rose Stewart Kelly Sullivan Anne Hunley Trisler
“Artistic Whimsical Fanciful & Truthful!“ ~ Denise Weatherby
Our Gorgeous Cover Mom, Janet Sobczyk, with daughter, Andrea. Janet takes us through journeys in featured poems, “The Non-Traditional Graduate” and “Summer & I”
A Non-Traditional Graduate By Janet Sobczyk, 2016 She stands lined up alphabetically an hour in sensible shoes honor cords resting on ample black gown next to millennials in high heels with bedazzled mortarboards. She waits quietly as conversations hum about parties last night and ones yet to come feeling out of place next to a hung-over grad who got married yesterday and can barely stand. A young classmate approaches offers hugs and best wishes promises to keep in touch hustles back to her spot leaves a smile on the older one’s face. The que processes proudly scanning the crowds waving at parents and siblings she finds grown children and spouse in the stands tears up as she smiles. With speeches done, names are called the line snakes forward, across the stage whistles, shouts, air horns subside to polite applause as she receives her degree. Later her co-worker says, Don’t know how you did it, working full time, raising a family doing homework, taking tests. She replies, with a contented sigh Neither do I.
Miller, Cap and Gown 1915 University of Chicago yearbook.pdf, Dramatics page
"This poem is dedicated to my supportive husband and children: Tom, Carolyn, Andrea, Joe, Monica, and Peter (he made a stressful trip alone to get to the ceremony and surprise me, which prompted my tears)."
SCREAMINMAMAS Fall 2020 EDITORIAL/ADMINISTRATION DARLENE PISTOCCHI Editor-In-Chief DENISE WEATHERBY The Listener DEANNA WOLVERTON Whipping Post BLOGGERS/POETS/CONTRIBUTORS The Life Blood of our Social and Mental Existence (Thank You, Ladies!! LISA CUMMINGS - Guest/Special Needs MARCELLA KUMER -Poetry/Stories RUTH LEE - Whimsical /Poetry PATRICIA LYNNE - Poetry/Stories DEBBIE MURPHY - English Mum/Lil Red PAULA TIMPSON - Poetic Thoughts ANITA STAFFORD - Recipes CONTRIBUTORS/WRITERS ALIXX BLACK - Humor/Feature DIANA DEANDA - Nostalgia GLORIA J HANSEN - Humor/Nostaligia CAROLE CHRISTMAN KOCH - Nostalgia ROSELYN STEWART - Stories/Poetry KELLY SULLIVAN - Short Stories/Network FEATURED WRITERS/POETS - FALL Millie Ragosta Baker ◆ Karen Curran ◆ Barbara Gilmour - Cool Kind Kid ◆ Holly Hawkins ◆ Kiersta Rechtenwald Ashley Simpson ◆ Janet Sobczyk ◆ Anne Hunley Trisler
CONTACT/CONNECT
EMAIL: ScreaminMamas@gmail.com MAIN WEBSITE: ScreaminMamas.com BLOGS: ScreaminMamas.Blogspot.com ScreaminMamas.wordpress.com Facebook: ScreaminMamas Twitter:@ScreaminMama YouTube.com/c/ScreaminMama Pinterest.com/harmonipro/ screaminmamas Instagram.com/ScreaminMamas Tumblr: ScreaminMama.Tumblr.com
Ruth Lee - Our Whimiscal Writer/Mom /Library Lady see her poem, Among the Trees, page 21
C O N T E N T S
Page 4 Page 5 Page 6-7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12-13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16-17 Page 18-19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24-25 Page 26-27 Page 28-29 Page 30-31 Back Cover
Letter from the Editor - Darlene Pistocchi Letters to the Editor - Paula, Patricia & Virginia The Crow - Anne Hunley Trisler - Short Story Baseball with Cody - Kelly Sullivan - Short Story Sunflowers - Paula Timpson - Poetry Gypsy Woman - Darlene Pistocchi - Poetry Changing the Way I Love You - Alixx Black - Short Story The Crush - Gloria Jean Hansen - Short Story One’s Place - Marcella Kumer - Poetry Featured Poet/Blogger/Writer - Paula Timpson Ticket to Anywhere - Patricia Lynne - Poetry Love Will Cost You . . . - Ashley Simpson - Short Story Teacher - Karen Curran - Short Story Among the Trees - Ruth Lee - Poetry Letter to the Editor - Janet Sobczyk Tips on High School Sports - Holly Hawkins - Article Cool Kind Kids - Barbara Gilmour - Featured Article New Friends - Rose Stewart - Animal Stories Animals & Us - Kiersta Rechtenwald - Poetry 7 Cars for 7 Brothers - Millie Ragosta - Short Story Summer & I - Janet Sobczyk - Poetry
Disclaimer: As a grassroots group of Moms, our publication dates vary. We work around the kids, the chores, the dogs, the dishes, the laundry, the bills... but, through the grace of God, and everyone’s continued faithfulness and patience, it gets done. Very thankfully. You may submit on our website or email: screaminmamas@gmail.com. All work published remains that of the author/artist. Layout and Design remains that of ScreaminMamas. Photos & artwork either from contributor, clipart, Adobe Spark or Public Domain. No part of this may be reproduced without express permission. All rights reserved 2013-2020.
Letter Letter from from the the editor editor From the Desk of . . .
Hello Fabulous Mamas & Contributors!
Painting: Reading a Letter, Russian Painter Nikolay Bogdanov-Belsky, 1892, Public Domain
What a joy it is to be able to revive this magazine to share YOUR work. I cannot tell you the amount of laughter and joy your stories, poems, and photos bring me. And when I open the inbox for Screamin Mamas, the letters of encouragement, success and inspiration overwhelm me with the drive to continue this work. Some of them are sprinkled throughout this issue as a reminder of the tremendous motivation each and every one of you are.
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Just a quick note here to let you all know that as I want to include everyone’s work in every issue, it’s too much. As my sister says, “She has sleepless nights deciding which stories to include but you can be sure she loves every single one of them.” The process is extremely organic and labor intensive, but your work is so worth it. In the end, I can say 97% of all submissions get published, either in the magazine or on our blogs. With that said, I can’t thank you all enough for your continued support, encouragement and faith in us. Special shout to our cover mom, Janet Sobczyk! Wow, is she an inspiration! We are happy to feature two of her poems in this issue - inside the front cover and the back cover. We’d also like to recognize Patricia Lynne, who has been one of our bloggers since almost the beginning of time - please enjoy her poem as our centerfold. Special recognition also goes to our other long-time bloggers and contributors, Ruth Lee, Paula Timpson, Marcella Kumer, Kelly Sullivan, Rose Stewart and Gloria Jean Hansen, as well as Alixx Black - a ferocious young writer with oodles of talent! So let’s get to it, shall we?? Love, Darlene xox
Painting: Woman Reading By A Window, by English Painter Gari Melchers, circa 1895 This media file is in the public domain in the United States. U.S. work public domain in the U.S. for unspecified reason but presumably because it was published in the U.S. before 1925.
Letters To The Editor . . . My name is Virginia, I read the magazine. Love those poems of encouragement. Congratulations. It has been so long since I could enjoy some Florida taste. I used to live in Hollywood, sometimes I go over there to visit my friends. Now I am in Ft Lauderdale. I mostly speak Spanish, maybe you remember me, or not. I was having a really difficult time with my teenage girl when I met your group. Thank you for sharing so much love with my little Joshua. It was close to Halloween at the Dania Library where you used to have meetings. Thank you for everything. Thumbs up for your work. God bless you!
It’s so beautiful! Lovely art, inspiring stories, encouraging poetry. Even a cool kid’s game! Everyone outdid themselves. Thank you everyone involved in publishing this amazing magazine. I wonder if there are contests for best magazine? Just a thought. Love. Patricia
The arrival of your magazine today touched my heart with joy! I will share it when I'm done Thanks SO much! Your magazine is beautiful, as always! Happy to receive, be a part of its glory and in touch with such good people. Fun and special, being Mum Luv, Paula ScreaminMamas - 5
The Story of A Mother and Her Son
The Crow Anne Hunley Trisler
“I am a crow,” announces 4-year-old Zachary. It is breezy and nearing late afternoon. Zachary continues, “Crows like to peck things with their beaks.” After stopping to get the mail, we have stopped at a grassy place to play before walking home to start dinner. Today has been a trying day for me, as Zachary’s behavior has been more unmanageable than even usual and I will be glad when it is bedtime, whenever that is. “I am a crow!” he shouts then, breaking into a run up the pathway that leads, eventually, to the tennis court. I have accepted that parenting Zachary will take more effort—physically and emotionally—and now is no different. Mentally I snap back from planning the evening menu, my mind rolling backwards through the past minutes of conversation between my son and me as I wonder why he is running away. I assume he has decided to change locations simply because he wishes to, because he is fast and free in spirit, and because he knows that though I will stop him, he can gain many yards first. However, I assume wrong, the realization setting in as I notice that Zachary is not running from me; he is running toward someone else. Who is it? I have never met her, never even seen her. She is a lady of about thirty-five, pleasant-looking, a bit plump. She wears a dark red blouse and a midlength printed skirt. ~~~ Suddenly, I flash back to an easier time—namely, the days when I held two-year-old Zachary in my arms. Day in and day out I carried him, as he still preferred to be held. Various people voiced opinions about our closeness, some with positive things to say, others with something closer to polite condescension. I heard a lot of “Aren’t your arms tired?” or “Isn’t he heavy?” and even (addressed to Zachary) “Can’t you walk?” with a ‘Sweetheart’ or ‘Cutie’ tacked on the end to disguise the
parenting advice it actually was (i.e. “PUT THAT KID DOWN ALREADY!”) With a friendly, conversational manner I smiled and managed to convey something I doubt many of them had considered, which was that I really enjoyed holding him, that we shared so much during days spent cheek to cheek, pointing out things of interest, viewing the world together. I usually mentioned how much easier it was for me to hold a contented child than I imagined it was for mothers I had seen chasing their toddlers down grocery store aisles and struggling with two-yearolds in line at banks.
“I am a crow!” he hollers again. At last! Something clicks in my brain so that just as he reaches the woman I know exactly what he is about to do.
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“Holding Zachary has given me really strong arms,” I often added with a chuckle, though that was no joke—my arms were never so toned as during those years! All that changed, of course, and at four Zachary’s favorite ways to travel are darting, leaping, and stomping. He has so much raw, electric energy; in fact, there are times he nearly seems to fly. He is often fueled by creative bursts of imagination which at once can send me into awestruck bliss or powerful fury, frustration, and mortification. He has thought to say and do things that I never imagined of a little child, things like giving himself countless new names, speaking in roars, sporting a tail for the better part of a year, running outside naked because “dragons don’t wear clothes,” and the list
grows daily. Though I suspect that upon meeting him, many think, “What a weird, wild kid,” I don’t mind, mainly because I am aware that within my own skin lurks a similar weird wild kid that I only manage to keep at bay sometimes. If Zachary had been born into a different family he might have been labeled the “problem child.” He is often unfocused, emotional, hyper, intense, wild, stubborn, outlandish, disagreeable, and defiant. Sometimes one day with him feels like two. However, he is also outgoing, affirming, creative, nurturing, affectionate, intelligent, sensitive, and empathetic. Countless days spent with him have been the best of my life. ~~~ One of Zachary’s favorite pastimes is pretending to be something else, often an animal, which brings me back to that afternoon, to that moment of time in which I can still hear his little bare feet clapping against the pavement as he races toward the lady neither of us knows. “I am a crow!” he hollers again. At last! Something clicks in my brain so that just as he reaches the woman I know exactly what he is about to do. Crows like to peck things with their beaks. I am too many feet away to stop him as he leans closer to the woman. I am running up the sidewalk. How many times have I been too late, always rushing to the scene in the aftermath? How many times have I cried “Stop!” to no avail? How many times have I yelled his name only to rediscover, after feeling foolish at his lack of response, that for someone like him it works much better to look into his eyes? I arrive at the scene, panting, overcome with embarrassment and a desire to laugh hysterically (you can either laugh or cry, and with Zachary I am often led to wonder which is an appropriate response to his antics) to find him pecking at this woman—is it her hip? Her stomach? Taking Zachary’s hand, I am ready with an explanation: “He was pretending to be a crow pecking with his beak—I’m so sorry.” I realize at once how ridiculous it sounds, how ridiculous it all is, and my laughter, as often it does, triumphs. Thankfully, the woman joins me and then walks away, unharmed and unruffled. I take a breath, stoop down, and look into those dark blue eyes. What can one say? I have never encountered this in a parenting book, so I go with my instinct and, without discrediting the joys and importance of pretend, we have a chat about personal space after which Zachary seems to understand that he went a little too far. I have hope for the future even with the knowledge that we will have many more instances similar to this one, and that this was probably not the most embarrassing one that will occur. Zachary is an interesting child, one I would not trade for anything. As we walk home I scoop his forty-pound body up and hold him close—just like old times. ◆ ◆ ◆
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Anne Hunley Trisler holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Tennessee. Her work has appeared in Connotation Press, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Wild Goose Poetry Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. Recently, her work was featured in Z Publishing House’s Best Emerging Poets series. This essay, "The Crow", is about parenting her oldest child, Zachary, during those crazy toddler yers. Anne is pictured below and we are delighted to feature her work.
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Baseball with Cody
Kelly Sullivan
A great experience for a boy who loves baseball is when I signed us up for a behind the scenes tour of the Reds Stadium. We toured the locker room and were even allowed to play ball on the field. Cody was only four. One of my son’s dreams from that day on was to get a baseball from his hometown team. We went to several games, but he never got a ball. Then, at age 17, he got his first ball, thrown up to him by the opposing team. Still, he was thrilled. He held that ball in his hand for a photo I got to take. It took us about twelve years plus to get his ball but he will always remember the fun time he had and he will always remember he got the ball he had always wanted.
Note: Reminiscing: I just signed us up for another tour in late May for a behind the scenes tour at the Cincinnati Reds Stadium with my photography group. Last time he was four and this time he will be an adult.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kelly Sullivan has had her writing and photography published in several magazines, including ScreaminMamas many times. She has been a lifelong writer and photographer. She grew up in Ohio and has lived in three different states and one country as a military wife. Her dream is to see all 50 states. Kelly is the mother of two children. They have been in front of her camera since they were little. Her website is kellyasullivanphotography.weebly.com. Kelly’s work is devoted to “Making people smile one photo at a time.” 8 - ScreaminMamas - Fall 2020
mit Sonnenblumen),
Jugenstilgemalde Unkonwn, 1903 U.S. work public domain in the U.S. for unspecified reason but presumably because it was published in the U.S. before 1925. (German:Mädchen
Humble Sunflowers bow down Praying
We fill up with Hope Strength seeing
Believing Grace is alive
Warming Sunflowers daily Dreaming
Rains sparkle the heart
Love always blossoms Full
Paula Timpson ScreaminMamas - 9
Gypsy Woman “many stars scattered in the sight of God”
Gypsy woman packed with charm Wanders about No cause for alarm Mystical living in nature’s yarn a nomad, traveler, playing her song Admired in secret by those who see a peace & tranquility of being this free Free to move and roam about without the baggage of material self-doubt Free to abandon societal chains Beat her own drum Sing in the rain Free to dance and follow the stars Gypsy Woman Provocative, you are!
Darlene Pistocchi
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Gipsy Woman Polski, Nikolai Yaroshenko (Russian), 1886 public domain in the United States because it was published (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before January 1, 1925.
Changing the Way I Love You
Alixx Black
“Gone are the days where I can be the superhero mom who saves the day at school and give him nose kisses bfore he races to class. Soon to come are the days where he would rather shut the door in my face than tell me what he did at school.” There comes a time in our parenting journeys where we have to adjust the way we show our love for our children. Terms like “helicopter parent” and “lawnmower parenting” make it hard to know when and where and how to parent your child the right way. If you help them too much, you’re controlling them, but if you don’t help enough, then you’re selfishly ignoring their needs. That’s the real trick in parenting – finding the right balance.
I’ve been struggling to find that balance. Depending on who you ask, I am either the helicopter parent or I am the risk-taking liberal who leaves nothing to their child’s imagination. I feel that while many people commend me as a parent, there are just as many who are critical of my choices as a mom. Thankfully, I parent for my son and myself, and those opinions don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. As long as my son loves my husband and me, who cares what someone else thinks about my parenting style? Their adjectives don’t change the family dynamic that we have in our home. But – I can’t pretend that my son isn’t growing up. He’s going to be in middle school soon. It is so hard to believe that this tiny human, this little man, is – not a little man any more. The teen years are approaching, as are the many unknown variables of him being a teenager. Gone are the days where I can be the superhero mom who saves the day at school and give him nose kisses before he races to class. Soon to come are the days where he would rather shut the door in my face than tell me what he did at school. All of the days won’t be like that, of course, but I know that I have control over how often we have those kinds of days. So I’ve adopted a new motto, and I do have to remind myself about it daily: I am going to love you more in your heart than in your face. As a person, I am not physically affectionate. Still, my son and I have a snuggle on the couch and love to hug each other, or high five when we see each other in the halls at school. Being that he is my only child and I have no ability to have more children, every
shared moment is a gift and joy in both of our lives. Dad and I are his best friends, and goodness knows he is our best friend. We get hyped to show one another how much we love to be together. That’s not how it’s going to work forever. These days I show my love less by inviting him to do everything with me at home and more by letting him choose to join me on the couch when he’s up to it. Instead of telling him how to deal with his negative emotions, I let him work through it until he is ready to ask for help. If he asks to spend more time with his friends, we don’t make him balance his time just because we’re busy. Friends will soon be just as important as family. He can’t learn what friendships are healthy if he doesn’t get to spend time with them to see what makes him happy and what ticks him off. Loving in his face – all of our cuddles, snuggles, and kisses goodbye – these things will always be there no matter what. Regardless of age, we will always be able to do those things. Love in his heart? It might not be as immediately gratifying, but it is as important as loving him in his face. Loving him in his heart means letting him stay home with his phone instead of dragging him to the store every trip we make; loving him in his heart means watching him struggle a little bit on his own and letting him solve it without my constant guidance; loving him in his heart is him knowing that no matter how good or bad things get that I’m always here. I can’t do any of that without changing the way I show him that I love him right now, during the years where it’s still cool to love your mom but also embarrassing to be loved by your mom. A change that big doesn’t happen overnight. Thankfully, I have a couple years left to perfect it. ◆ ◆ ◆ When it comes to writing, Alixx Black is a force to be reckoned with! Our last issue featured, “Things Only Get Weirder from Here” a real-time, hilarious account of dealing with pre-teen dilemmas. She definitely knows how to capture “mom” but her writing talents span across the spectrum. Please visit her blog at alixxblack.wordpress.com. ScreaminMamas - 11
THE CRUSH
Nostalgia
By Gloria Jean Hansen Would he go by today? The trucks were hauling, but I hadn’t seen his yet. He was late. “Gloria! Get in here and finish these dishes!” Mom sounded edgy, and that spelled trouble for me. She was bad enough calm. I wondered if she had ever had fun in her life. She was always so serious, always looked ready to give someone a ‘lickin’, as she called it. “Boy-bitty--” She always said that just before she exploded. Time to go back inside. I couldn’t wait to leave here for good. God, I hated this place. Could never bring anyone over, it was so disgusting. The linoleum showed bare floor wherever we stood or walked, like in front of the stove, or by the sink, in all the doorways. I wished we had a house like Carol’s—I loved going over there. She actually had a bedroom to herself, and her floors gleamed. Everything in her kitchen was white, and so clean, smelling of cinnamon. And her mom smiled while she worked!
kitchen for something that I could haul outside. I didn’t have much time. The slop pail. As I grabbed it from under the sink, some of the nasty sludge spilled on my knee and onto the floor. I would deal with it later. Right this minute, I had a cute Frenchman to wave at. “What the heck are you up to now?” “I’m taking out the slop pail! It’s full.” The sound of the truck was closer. I left the filthy pail behind the porch door, as I straightened my hair a bit. He was almost in sight. I heard the gears shift as he crested the hill. I sauntered toward the mailbox as I saw the blue nose of the truck. If I hurried, I would be close enough to jump on the running board and run my fingers through his gorgeous black curls, or chew on that pouty bottom lip of his.
“
He was coming! I could hear the truck speeding across the flats by the store, then slowing for the curve by our house. I pictured those rippling muscles grabbing the gearshift, powerful legs jamming the clutch and the brake. I bet he looked pretty good in jeans, and I vowed I would see him stretched out somewhere soon, minus his jeans, maybe by the creek. Right next to me, telling me he loved me.
“Quit yer daydreaming and get those dishes done so I can start the washing. I need water carried too.”
I felt like Cinderella. From the time I got up in the morning, until I went to bed at night, it was work, work, work. “O—kayy, Ma. But how come the boys can’t come in and do these dishes, and carry the water?” “There you go again, popping off at the mouth, talking back. Pipe down and do as you’re told.” Just then, I heard him. The low drone of his truck as he climbed the hill back of the house, in ‘bull’ gear, my stepfather used to say. Frantically, I searched the messy
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”
“Gloria! Get IN here!” Oh, she’d spoil it. I knew it. I would reach the mailbox at the same moment as the truck. As it approached, I looked up into the most beautiful dark eyes I had ever seen in my life. My movie star! In the heat of the morning, he had taken his shirt off. Muscles. Rippling, tanned muscles. I went weak as our eyes met. For a brief moment, he smiled shyly down at me—white teeth gleaming. I grabbed a fencepost for support. And then, with a clash of gears, he sped off, dust everywhere. “What in blue blazes are you doing out THERE? You’re
getting crazier every day! Can’t get anything out of you on a Saturday, sitting around mooning over those darn True Stories! ‘Screw’ Stories,’ more like, head in the clouds, and now you’re out prancing around in front of those truckers--” Just one trucker, Ma. Just one. If I timed it right, I could have the dishes and the floors done by the time he came back with a load of gravel. I might even have time to get my good slacks on and be out on the road. “I need some water here! Hurry up with ya!” Yeah, yeah, Ma. Coming. “Why can’t those lazy boys get the water? You never make them do anything!” “Shut up! You never learn. You’re a girl. This is all you’re ever going to be doing, all your life.” If you only knew, Ma. I finished everything, and ran to get changed. I snuck into her bedroom and dabbed a bit of her lipstick on. Lord knows she never used it! She barely combed her hair. Now to get out the front door. I could hear the washing machine sloshing in the kitchen, and my mother cursing at something or other. He was coming! I could hear the truck speeding across the flats by the store, then slowing for the curve by our house. I pictured those rippling muscles grabbing the gearshift, powerful legs jamming the clutch and the brake. I bet he looked pretty good in jeans, and I vowed I would see him stretched out somewhere soon, minus his jeans, maybe by the creek. Right next to me, telling me he loved me. I headed down the road as the truck appeared. I kept my head down until the last minute, pretending I didn’t notice him. I heard the engine, so close now. I could feel the heat and smell the diesel fumes. Oh, I knew in my heart he felt something for me. In my twelve-year-old mind he was my hero. He would get me out of this miserable place, my ticket to paradise, my knight in shining armor. His steed was a blue gravel truck, his shining armor jeans and a T-shirt. As the truck crawled alongside of me, I looked up at him with the sexiest half-lidded gaze I could muster. And nearly passed out. He wasn’t alone. There in the cab with him, a beautiful blonde woman smiled, holding a little boy on her lap, an older child sitting between them. One happy little family. The kids waved as he leaned out the window and breathed, “Hi there, cutie!” ◆ ◆ ◆
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Gloria Jean Hansen was born and raised in the small Scandinavian farming community of Kipling in Northern Ontario, Canada. She is mother of four, grandmother to eight plus, retired nurse, and bluegrass musician who enjoys playing and jamming at various festival circuits with her friends. In her spare time she enjoys writing, painting, skiing, camping and fishing with her family. Gloria has penned long-running newspaper columns, several magazine articles and has several published books, which can be found on Amazon. A year or two ago, she said, “One day Gloria will retire to a cabin by the river to write full time.” Well, her cabin is pictured below, along with Gloria, and we are always so happy to publish her work.
One’s Place Dream an illusion of one’s reality Dream a time to have ones truth To be in a place that seems safe To be where reality cannot be World that can bring happiness World that can bring sadness World that can bring hope World that can bring love Colors I see inside of me Colors that are not by name Red is not red Blue is not blue Smell is all around me Hair a smell of clean Flower a smell of sunset Water a smell of hope Touch is within my fingertips Touch a dog stress no more Touch a flower happiness emerge Touch the grass fulfillments inside See the miracle of dreams See the objects of time never been See the one who will never be See heaven from my bed. Taste a chocolate sundae never tasted Taste a cheek never kissed Taste a morning never felt Taste a tear never cried. Dream’s a place each can see Dream’s a place I wish to see Dream’s a place I go to now Dream’s a place that will always be.
Marcella Kumer 14 - ScreaminMamas - Fall 2020
Miranda, English Painter, John William Waterhouse 1875, public domain
PAULA TIMPSON Featured Blogger/Poet/Author
Follow here here: https://www.amazon.com/Books-Paula-Timpson
Paula has been blogging for us since our beginnings and we are so thankful! Her work is filled with faith, inspiration and the love of her son, Jimmy. She also self-publishes books about cildren, nature and the power of faith, which are available on Amazon. We are happy to highlight them here! Her latest is In Praise of Autistic Children. She says, “I wish to help give others hope through my writings for God’s glory.” ~ Luv, Paula Timpson
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Ticket to Anywhere
Titania sleeping in the moonlight protected by her fairies mid 1800s by British artist John Simmon, Romantacism, public doman
Don’t Don’t wake wake me me up up I’m I’m flying flying out out to to anywhere anywhere Searching Searching for for the the garden garden Safety Safety will will be be found found there there Tentacles Tentacles of of Covid Covid Cannot Cannot touch touch any any soul soul Perimeter Perimeter amply amply protected protected So So says says the the sacred sacred scroll scroll No No taking taking itit to to the the streets streets There There simply simply is is no no need need Brotherhood Brotherhood reigns reigns true true World World souls souls roaming roaming free free An An imaginary imaginary landscape landscape Takes Takes decades decades to to build build Death, Death, sweat, sweat, years years of of pain pain For For nirvana nirvana to to be be fulfilled fulfilled But But here here itit is is in in plain plain view view In In the the dream dream state state of of my my mind mind
Patricia Lynne
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Love Will Cost You a Quarter Ashley Simpson
“Was I bribing him for more affirmations of his affection for me? Quite possibly, but I was willing to take whatever he was willing to give.” The first time my son told me he loved me was an attempt to weasel more quarters out of me for the arcade in the back of our local Ryan’s. He was eleven years old, and we had known each other just three short months. His words still ringing in my head, I scrounged around in the bottom of my oversized purse in search of those silver coins that he coveted. Was I bribing him for more affirmations of his affection for me? Quite possibly, but I would take whatever he was willing to give. He scurried off to play games in the arcade, trying desperately to win a new watch out of the claw machine. From behind the thick plexiglass window that separated us, he formed a heart out of two cupped hands. I flashed him a thumbs-up sign and headed back to the dessert bar for another round of coconut crème pie and vanilla ice cream. As I sat at the table alone, I ruminated over everything that had brought us here in this moment. It was a mother-son date night that almost didn’t happen. “Are you sure that you’re okay with this?” my husband asked earlier that morning, concert tickets gripped tightly in his hands. “Even after everything that happened in the past couple of days?” We were in the middle of a long adoption process and our newly minted eleven-year-old was like a Tasmanian devil tearing apart our home. He could spend long hours wailing at the top of his lungs, pitching picture frames at our heads and destroying everything he touched. It did not matter what we said or
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what we did. Nothing seemed to calm the beast that drove him to act out in progressively more destructive ways. “Of course,” I smiled so hard that my cheeks felt like they might split in two. “Why shouldn’t I be able to handle him for just one night?” My husband had planned to attend this concert months ago. He wasn’t even going to spend the night in another city, just an evening out on the town. However, we both faced a healthy dose of skepticism over whether I could physically manage our son in the meantime. In reality, even I doubted my ability to keep the entire house together for an evening. Since I wasn’t sure I could keep the house together, I decided that we would not spend a single moment in the house. From the moment I picked him up from school, we would make plans to go out and about. It would make a memorable mother-son date night, the first one that we would ever have. I considered all of the places we could go but then reconsidered. It might just be best to let him have control instead of upsetting the delicate balance so early in the evening. “Can we go to Ryan’s?” he asked, his eyes lighting up. An endless food buffet seemed like the sort of thing that would appeal to a growing boy with a healthy appetite. It also seemed like it would eat up a great deal of the time we would need to spend together. With the first decision formed, I navigated my way to the opposite side of town to sit down at a greasy
restaurant with my son and eat endless yeast rolls fresh from the oven. We ate through two plates each of crispy fried chicken, creamy macaroni and cheese, and salad without the dressing. He ate ravenously with few words to spare for me in between bites. He talked a little bit about the times when his grandmother used to bring him and his siblings to this same restaurant on Sunday afternoons. I pretended to hide my surprise that he was sharing so many of these intimate details with me. As his stomach started to swell with food, his eye caught the arcade on the opposite side of the dining room. “Do you want a few quarters?” I asked, sensing that he was hesitant to ask for this first round of change. I handed him a dollar bill and told him to put it in the change machine to get his quarters. It took him less than five minutes to spend the spare change and come back begging for more. “I’m only good for more quarters?” I joked, rifling through my purse to appease him. “I mean, I love you and all, but…” he trailed off and my hand froze
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Ashley Simpson has been a professional freelance writer for more than seven years. While most of her work is ghostwritten, she is now branching out to release her own creative writing into the world.
“He ran off and back into the arcade where he argued over the
machines with another child. When his eyes caught mine again, I knew that we had turned a new corner in our relationship. We were no longer adversaries but mother and son at last.” in the midst of my search for the elusive quarters I knew to be in the bottom of my bag. I looked up at him, trying hard not to make a big deal out of the moment. Act casual, I chided myself, trying to mirror his own nonchalant attitude. But when I looked up, I saw the face of a child who was open and vulnerable for the first time in a long time. The flush rose in his cheeks from the embarrassment of this open admission of affection for his new mother. He paused awkwardly, hand still outstretched for my spare change. “I love you too,” I told him, pressing the coins into the doughy flesh of his palm. My eyes avoided his because the moment was just too tender. He ran off and back into the arcade where he argued over the machines with another child. When his eyes caught mine again, I knew that we had turned a new corner in our relationship. We were no longer adversaries but mother and son at last. ◆ ◆ ◆
“Screamin Mamas is a place where real moms come together to create a beautiful community. As an adoptive mom to an older child, I believe this piece may reach a portion of your audience that does not see themselves reflected in the typical stories included on your site. For others, it may remind them of tender moments with their own children.” ~ Ashley
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Teacher by: Karen H. Curran
Children at the Piano by: Nikolay Bogdanov-Belsky, 1918. Style: Realism
My son is a teacher, a university professor. I find this amazingbe-
cause, in spite of my father and sister being teachers, I was not born with that ability. My efforts to teach my children piano met with disaster: crying, refusing to do as I instructed, and finally quitting after a half dozen lessons.
"It's okay, Mom. We love you. You don't have to be perfect." Wow. Only seven, but still able to put his thumb on the heart of the matter, something I would see him do time and again in the future.
I believed that as a good mother, I should be able to help my child with homework. When I couldn't, I felt like a failure. I wasn't just I repeat: I am not a teacher. Never have been. Never will be. upset out of empathy for my child, though that was surely part of it. I was also distressed because I believed that a good mother should be able to soothe the tears, take away the “Though I play the piano well, it does not translate to pain, and fix the problem. Hard as I tried, I couldn't.
being a good piano teacher. When I understand or do things intuitively, I can’t conceive of other people not getting it, so I have no idea how to teach them.” My son, Chris, however, has been teaching me all his life. I first glimpsed his ability when he was only seven. His little sister was in hysterics one afternoon because I couldn't help her with homework (remember, I'm not a teacher), so I decided to put myself in time-out (i.e., remove myself from the situation.) As I walked towards my bedroom fighting back tears, Chris stopped me with these words:
I don't know where I got the idea that I was supposed to fix every problem. I don't remember my mother doing that for me; I just recall working long and hard to figure out and fix things for myself.
Regardless of the reason, I expected to solve things for my children. And Chris saw this. I don't know how, but I suspect I know why. God allowed him to see truth as a way of awakening me, helping me to see the foolishness and impossibility of my self-expectations. We have to see before we can take a step towards change, a step towards letting go and giving things to God. ◆ ◆ ◆
Karen Curran is a retired accountant living in Franklin, Tennessee. Always ready for a new adventure, she enjoys capturing life’s unique moments through words. Her stories can be found in Potato Soup Journal, Taco Bell Quarterly, howtopackforchurchcamp.com, storyhouse.org, and oldkaren.com. 20 - ScreaminMamas - Fall 2020
Among Among The The Trees Trees From A Poem A Day . . . Cars on road, you cannot know all that goes on here below– albeit at a slower pace: earth turns unhurried in this place, and trees will grow or fall unheard, while symphony of song by bird blooms unapplauded in the air– the forest truly doesn’t care: each leaf, rock, bug, bird does its part as God has granted from the start. The cars race by without a look at all named good in God’s big book.
. . . Ruth Lee The Whimsical Writer/ Mom/Library Lady
Painting: Solitary Tree a/k/a Landscape in Morning Light, by Caspar David Friedrich, 1822 This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 100 years or fewer. ScreaminMamas - 21
Letter to the Editor
Reading in the Garden PD 70 years The author died in 1945, so this work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or fewer. before 1941
Dear Mamas, I’m so glad to hear the progress on your reboot! ScreaminMamas will always have a warm spot in my heart since you were the first publication to accept my poetry (3 issues in 2016-17.) You gave me confidence to get past the many rejections and find other places for my work, both in print and online. I have even received payment for one of my poems (a whole $10!) and that added to my determination, more than my wallet. Now my work is published monthly in Your Country Neighbor, a southeast Nebraska publication. I’m also working on a book of devotions for parents of children with special needs, using examples about my daughter who has Down syndrome. I’ve stepped up to join other writers who give readings to promote the NE Writers Guild anthology that was published last fall. It contains my poem, “Natural Order,” which is about the personalities and birth order of my five children. Most exciting of all…last fall I presented a short workshop on poetry at the NWG Poet’s Retreat in Nebraska City. Who knew that all this would result from the encouragement that I received from Lena and the staff of ScreaminMamas?! Thank you so much for your labor of love. Sincerely, Janet Sobczyk
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TIPS & FACTS ABOUT HIGH SCHOOL SPORTS
by Holly Hawkins
As we head into a new school year, here are some helpful tips and facts about some of your children’s favorite sports. You might be surprised how dangerous some of these activities can be, so Ms.Hawkins has compiled some testimonials, data and tips to share with you. CHEERLEADING - Thinking of risky high school sports, cheerleading might be the first to come to mind. Although it sounds like all fun and games, it is one of the most dangerous sports. During cheer, you have to lift and throw girls up to 20 feet in the air, and then catch them. “I think that cheerleading is dangerous because many girls can suffer from concussions, broken bones, and strained muscles as a result from not hitting a stunt,” said Mia Marchini, a cheerleader from Tehachapi High School. A girl like Mia would know the dangers of this sport because she has been injured three times herself. Cheerleaders everyday suffer from these types of injuries. TIPS: Ways to prevent it would be to work on your stunts more often, have coaches and spots watching at all practices, and most importantly, don’t do things you know you can’t do. SWIMMING - Gracefully moving through water might not seem dangerous until you see a young kid being dragged out. Swimming is one of those sports that are much underrated. “I have torn my rotator cuff in my shoulder, pulled my hip out of place; I now have to see a chiropractor to put everything back into place. I have also had a concussion due to hitting my head for my backstroke finish, as I was going too fast for my count, I also pulled a muscle in my side,” said Sydnee Blackburn, a swimmer of 8 years from Tehachapi High School. “Swimming is dangerous since the swimmers over use their shoulders, knees, hips, and ankles. It is very easy to mess up your count for your backstroke. New swimmers may not have the proper technicality of
the stroke, which makes them more susceptible to injury, as well as long-term injury. Swimmers may get so exhausted that they experience blackouts in the middle of the pool. An unconscious swimmer may go unnoticed until it’s too late. Now the pool and coaches will have a dead body on their hands.” TIP: To make this sport less dangerous, people need to stretch more and have not only coaches but lifeguards so people don’t drown. FOOTBALL - This sport may be the most obvious one, football. During football, athletes harm themselves almost every game. “I haven’t been playing football for long, but I have seen people break arms, injure their backs, and people getting concussions,” said Nicholas Suazo, a freshman football player at Tehachapi High School. Personally, I haven’t seen as many injuries in any other sport than football. Since this sport is so popular, it’s not going anywhere, but it does need to become safer. TIP: For example, if a kid if very small, they shouldn’t play against someone who is double their size. Cheerleading, swimming, and football are just a few of the most threatening high school sports. From sprain ankles to concussions, you should always make sure that your child or children are safe. Even though all sports are dangerous in some sort of way, you shouldn’t make your kid participate in nothing, just make sure to do it in the safest way possible. ◆ ◆ ◆ Holly Hawkins is a high-school graduate who enjoys writing articles and reviews in her spare time. She likes to base her work on helping others. Holly went to Tehachapi High School and was part of the yearbook staff. We’re happy to help build her platform here.
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Cool Kind Kid Website: https://www.CoolKindKid.com http://facebook.com/coolkindkid http://twitter.com/coolkindkids http://instagram.com/coolkindkids
Raising a ‘Cool Kind Kid’™ Or, How can You Equip Your Child with the Social Skills Tools Needed to Build Healthy Relationships and Reject Bullying? We first met Barbara Gilmour in an anti-bullying article we published called, Anti-Bullying: A Look at the Passion and Vision of Barbara Gilmour. In that article, Barbara shared her background in being raised where manners and social skills were practiced, and how she began teaching those skills to young children. Barbara is the CEO and Creative Director of CKK Educational, LLC. Her mission for the last 20 years has been to create and develop social skills and bullying prevention educational materials for parents, educators, and our children. She is passionate about providing a positive solution to our nation’s bullying crisis. At the time of 9/11, Barbara was teaching manners and social skills classes to young children in her local area. At the same time, she was beginning to develop the kids’ course she had written and was teaching, into what would become the Cool Kind Kid Social Skills, Character Values, and Bullying Prevention Curriculum, Elementary School Edition. Very early in December of that year, she was awakened at 5 am with a poem in her head. After trying to return, unsuccessfully, to sleep, she got up and wrote it down. It has sat for many years, until recently when Barbara made it into the book mark here. This poem also is the content for her new book for parents, teachers, and children called Raising a ‘Cool Kind Kid.’™ We’ll come back to the poem in a bit, but first let’s focus on what is happening to our children. Bullying is now at epidemic levels. All 50 states have legislation in place directing school districts to adopt anti-bullying policies. Sadly, most of those policies are reactive; dealing with the issues after they happen. Certainly, they must be dealt with; but those practices aren’t getting to the root of the problem. Research is showing that these reactive measures aren’t working. Additional research is supporting social skills, or social competence training, at young ages, as the missing link in bullying prevention. And, we have now identified a ‘bullying cycle.’ It starts with rudeness or
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incivility, gains momentum to become bullying, and then can escalate into violence. The challenge is addressing the root or beginning of the problem, the rudeness or incivility, which is also the easiest part of the cycle to address. Parents are frustrated that schools aren’t doing enough to end this epidemic. Educators are frustrated that parents aren’t sending their children to school with the skills needed to get along with peers and thrive as they go through their school years. In the midst of that we find our children, who just want bullying to end. They want to feel safe, comfortable, confident, and accepted not only in school, but in their media. They not only fear being bullied, but are afraid of doing the wrong thing, of being embarrassed, and rejected or excluded. The focus of Cool Kind Kid has been to provide a proactive solution that helps kids learn the skills that remove those fears; increasing their self-esteem, their confidence levels, and their ability to get along with peers, so the bullying never happens. As kids embrace Cool Kind Kid, the motivation for bullying is considerably weakened, and behavior improves. The Raising a ‘Cool Kind Kid’™ poem is a summary of what a Cool Kind Kid is, does, and says. It shows a chronology of important qualities, values, and actions to instill in our children that will have a positive impact on them for life. In the book by the same name, each two lines of the poem are separated onto individual pages, with parent/teacher guidelines and tips on the right side, and an original illustration and content for kids on the left. You can work with your kids or students to help them learn these skills. There were an additional two stanzas to this poem. Barbara is hoping that someone someday will convert it into a song or rap. In light of what happened on 9/11, the end of the poem is quite moving. Hopefully, we can use the poem as a guide for actions to instill its values, as well as this pride and patriotism in all of our children.
I’m a citizen of the USA And proud to say I care I’ll fly our flag so high They’ll see it everywhere I’ll respect our rights and freedom Until the day I die And be grateful when I see our flag Fly in a clear, safe sky ©Barbara Gilmour At the time of our last article about Barbara and her social skills products for bullying prevention, she was writing her first picture book. Tanner Wants to be COOL.™ for ages 3-9. It includes two of the award-winning Cool Kind Kid CD song downloads. She has also completed the Cool Kind Kid Handbook, Be a Cool Kind Kid, for parents, teachers, and kids 4-9. This book contains 5 song downloads. In addition, she has created a fun pack of Cool Kind Kid Flash & Game Cards. This product includes 3 interactive games for home or school. Plus, these and other products are included in the Bullying Prevention Resource Kits for Parents and Teachers. ◆ ◆ ◆
We now offer free shipping on all orders. Right now all products are on sale. Use this code for an additional 10% discount: SMAMAS10
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New Friends A Very Foxy Tale!! Rose Rose Stewart Stewart
All Photos Courtesy Rose Stewart - above the Wisconsin cabin, next page, Magic the cat, one of the foxes eating the food Buzz left out and Rose and Buz bottom right.
W
hen we arrived at our summer home in the Wisconsin woods beside the river the wind rose up and made a rushing sound as it passed through the pines. In short order, my husband had his boat in the water and was “gone fishing”. My mother and I were left alone to savor the Wisconsin wilderness. This was her first visit and we wanted her to enjoy herself. When the wind died down an eerie quiet came over the forest. The tall, majestic pines dwarfed us and we were filled with awe.
stirred and passed through the screen porch rustling the trees and tall grassed outside. I began to straighten out the furniture that had been stacked against the house wall and arranged it about the porch. That evening, after supper, we sat on the porch and watched the sun go down. The deer were at the salt lick about one hundred yards from the house. Shortly before
“The forest came alive, we could hear the
My cat Magic, imprisoned in his pet carrier, began to complain. My mother and I carried the cat and supplies into the house and began the job of unpacking. I opened the patio doors to our screened in cedar porch and released Magic.
crickets and the hoot of an owl. The deer came down to the salt lick and as the pair of red foxes passed by, something different happened.”
The cat began to investigate his surroundings - with nose in the air he sniffed all the new smells. A breeze 26 - ScreaminMamas - Fall 2020
the sun set, a pair of red foxes trotted past our porch. They headed for the river and disappeared. I was amazed at how close they followed beside the porch. Magic followed
along with them to the end of the porch and then sat down and watched until they were out of sight. The evening passed. When the sun went down and we could no longer read, we sat and enjoyed the sounds of the woods, teeming with wild life. Later, we got ready for bed by gas light. The cabin had a generator but we did mostly everything by use of propane gas.
One of the New Friends enjoying dinner a la Buz!
The next day, Buz left early to go fishing. My mother and I read, sunbathed and prepared the day’s meals. After supper, when we were out on the screen porch, the two red foxes passed by and I noticed that one was small, dainty and sleek, and the male, the larger of the two, had a scruffy ruff as though he had been in a fight. That evening, Buz commented that he had spotted their den on the side of the river bank and had left them a fish as a present for their supper. He hoped they had enjoyed it. The next evening we took up our regular seats on the screen porch, our window to the woods. The forest came alive, we could hear the crickets and the hoot of an owl. The deer came down to the salt lick and as the pair of red foxes passed by something different happened. We could hear a mewling noise coming from the direction of Buz, it was beneath his feet, below the porch. “Where’s Magic” I exclaimed. I thought he had gotten out and was mewling to get back in. Magic hadn’t gotten out, he was at Buz’s feet pointing like a hunting dog, nose down, one paw up, tail straight out in the direction of the noise coming from below the porch. There came more mewling and chortling. We got up and peered over the side of the porch and there was the little red fox at Buz’s feet.
Roselyn Stewart and her husband, Buz, (pictured below), reside at Willowbrook Apts.in Brookfield, Wisconsin. Rose reads her poetry and short stories in a coffee house in downtown Milwaukee, as well as submitting to various publications. She has been contributing to ScreaminMamas since 2014. You may remember her stories, Romance on the High Seas, Ethereal Ireland, Your Memory Lingers, Our Secret Society and many more.
The sweet noise went on for a few minutes more and my mother laughted in awe and exclaimed, “Why that fox is thanking Buz for their supper!” We were all astounded. It was a special moment. Buz had made friends with the red foxes! The next morning, the two red foxes trotted into our front yard and my mother went out to greet them. She talked to them for awhile and then in unison they vanisehd into the woods again. Buz and I were delighted to see how much pleasure this visit had given my mother. Sadly, my mother died the next year and we could only hope this visit to the north woods had been memorable for her - thanks to the pair of red foxes. ◆ ◆ ◆ ScreaminMamas - 27
Animals and Us
Photographic Replica of oil painting taken at a public market in Nairobi, Kenya. Bjรถrn Larsson, www.bjornlarsson.se 8-10 public domain 28 - ScreaminMamas - 2019 Edition
Could we be animals our ways might run a somewhat kinder, But all we'd do could prove a bit reserved, For kindness shows a kind of goodness, And goodness makes one's wisdom kinder, With wisdom, in its turn, appreciation For all that beauty just suggests; All we'd done would stay as cage-less, As misted as a foggy morn.
Kiersta Recktenwald
Seven Cars for Seven Brothers By Millie Baker Ragosta
Finally, in February, the three boys confessed they There are rites of passage in our culture that every young man undergoes, some of which their mothers have might need “just a little help.” So, papa Vince called Pete’s Auto Body to come with the wrecker and haul the car into never heard about. One I have heard about is known as “The First Car the shop. Friends who lived near-by reported peals of laughPurchase” - which makes the ancient custom of young men ter as Pete and his mechanics uncovered more of the boys’ forced to run the gauntlet as proof of their manhood; it’s a “auto-surgery.” I can’t remember what eventually happened to the piece of cake compared to what a mom endures when her big, pink vehicle; all I do remember is that young Vince surman-child buys his first car. VINCE, JR. Last spring, our eldest son, Vince, Jr., vived his “First Car Purchase,” served in the army, married bought an ancient pink Buick that could have towed the and—like his dad—became a casualty insurance man. He also inherited his dad’s abiding sense of responsibility for Queen Mary. “It’s a great car, Mom; all it needs is a new engine,” the family, no matter what happened. ART. When our second son’s turn for the “First Car he said. Purchase” came along, pragmatic Art contented himself “Isn’t that serious?” non-mechanical me asked. “Not really. Ed knows how to do it. He and Greg will help me.” I thought, at least, they’ll One I have heard about (rite of passage) be here . . . where I can keep an is known as “The First Car Purchase” - which eye on them . . . not that I would makes the ancient custom of young men forced know a set of brakes from the ignition thingie. to run the gauntlet as proof of their manhood; Our driveway soon acit’s a piece of cake compared to what a mom quired more grease than the pitstop at the Indiana five-hundred endures when her man-child buys his first car.” and I couldn’t tell Vince from his buddies since they were all coated with it. Worse, the fumes creeping into the kitchen made everything I cooked taste like petro- with buying his sister Kathy’s Pinto . . . the model they kept recalling. leum. I consider his rite of passage relatively successful The leaves fell off the maple trees and stuck in the gunk now coating our driveway. When the first icicles since he’s still speaking to Kathy. He now has a degree in formed along the spouting, the intrepid “mechanics” pushed aeronautical engineering, so he’s a real “rocket scientist,” the car into our integral garage to work on it, pausing only to with living-room walls hung with thank you posters signed by astronauts. Did buying a Pinto teach him anything usegrab sandwiches and milk for dinner. Christmas came and even our tree smelt like petro- ful? Sure did; he never holds a grudge and—metaphorically speaking—he always shoots for the stars. leum.
“
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KEVIN. Kevin bought a motorcycle, which his father flatly refused to allow him to license for highway driving. “You can ride it on our property,” Vince conceded, whereupon Kevin began riding the darned thing in a circle around our four-acre “mini-farm,” with our house right in the middle, until a ditch developed. Had we filled it with water, our “manor-house” would have looked like a medieval, moat-enclosed castle. A bonus for all Kevin’s driving around in circles taught him the patience required as a Pediatric Intensivist, pondering, studying . . . and praying on how to cure desperately ill children. JOE. My sister, Alberta gave our college-freshman, Joe, a shiny black Oldsmobile sedan that really had belonged to a little, old man who only drove it to church . . . until her husband, Ken—who owned a garage—took it on a trade. When generous Alberta bestowed it on Joe, he installed a dashboard plaque informing his passengers that this was a Mafia staff car and you were to “keepa-you- hands off.” He drove it to college for two years and his only problem with it was the students who approached him wanting to take out contracts on the professors who’d flunked them. Joe has a doctorate in chemistry now and a soul-deep concern for maintaining the environment. No more big sedans for Joe. JOHN. Feeling the first stirrings of manhood, John bought a cute little MGB with wheels that looked like the sunburst device of the Plantagenet House of York. His dad gave him the duty lecture about how difficult it is to get parts for a British car—that it really does behoove an insurance man’s family to buy American cars—and climbed behind the wheel himself, his eyes shining with the glow only a man who’s been obliged to drive a station-wagon for twenty-five years could possibly understand. John finally sold it while finishing law school and—after years of being an attorney— earned another doctorate in American history, takes on teaching assignments for vacationing professors as well as writing well-reviewed history books. These days, John walks
whenever it is feasible and—conscious of a deep obligation to those who follow us on earth—drives an electric car. TONY. Tony, like me, loves old furniture, so his first choice was a battered pick-up truck. On spring clean-up days, I would climb up into the passenger seat beside him to cruise the streets in search of discarded, but restorable, furniture. While Tony’s dad refrains from calling our treasures “junk,” he does refer to us as “Sanford and Mom.” Tony now finds beautiful, restorable antiques that he sells in two antique conglomerates. BILL. Our youngest boy, Bill, almost from babyhood, has loved—equally—dogs and the great outdoors. His first car was an old but snazzy Grand Prix, which he soon traded in on a little red pick-up truck. Now, a game protector/ farmer, Bill breeds Scottish Highland cattle, Yorkshire pigs, Cornish/ Rock chickens, and English Setters. The ancient term, “Gentleman Farmer,” might have been invented for our classy but down-to-earth Bill. And do I believe each of my boys’ first cars influenced their choice of profession? I certainly do! ◆ ◆ ◆
ABOUT THE AUTHOR - MILLIE RAGOSTA helped her eleven (11) bright children, (7 boys, 4 girls), with college expenses writing a column for the largest Catholic weekly in the country, Catholic Twin Circle, and is where this charming story was first printed October 10, 1982. Millie has also written historical romances for Doubleday’s library editions. She says, “I’m sure you will surmise, I was sometimes a “Screamin’ Mama,” but now, at 89, I have lost my husband and, Joe, the middle of my seven sons, but with 19 grand-kids and 11 great-grands, so far, I only scream in pride these days.”
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Summer and I By Janet Sobczyk, 2017
We start at a leisurely stroll on a warm sun-drenched path stretching to the horizon no hurry, no worries with plenty of plans and high hopes. Our pace quickens as we near July 4th excitement builds, fireworks flash we dash to a hilltop for a better view flop down on the grass gazing slack-jawed at the sky tonight is perfect for sleeping under the stars. The next morning the hilltop has become a waterslide no going back, gravity has a firm hold it pulls us, splashing and flailing through curves and loops zooming through the weeks to August with eyes closed, drenched and screaming. Suddenly the ride is over. Summer hands me a backpack sighs, walks away then turns to wave goodbye. Reprinted with permission from Your Country Neighbor, Aug. 2018.
ScreaminMamas.com Background Painting by English Painter, Fyodor Vasilyev, 1869. English: Summer hot day Public Domain plus 100 years. Girls Hiking by MaBraS, Pixabay..com/photos/children-girl-hiking-walking-stick-4355477/MaBraS